Question: Does Cam shoplift?
Answer:
Once, when Cam was about eight or nine, he got busted for shoplifting. His mother was cleaning his room, one day, changing the sheets, and she found a stack of video games, stuffed behind his headboard. There was no way he could have paid for them, and there was no reason to hide them behind his dresser if they belonged to a friend. His father was working a lot, out of town, so Cam had to wait for days for his punishment.
When the day came, a Saturday, the three of them got in the car, heading for the video store, where Cam finally admitted he had stolen the merchandise. It was tucked in the corner in one of your basic anonymous Southern California strip malls, about a mile from their house. They parked; his father got out, first, and went inside to see if the owner was available. When he walked in, he spotted a man behind the counter, so he walked over. Before he reached the counter, he heard the man speak to a couple kids, playing some board game on the floor, and then he saw them. There were three children, two boys, one older, one younger, and a girl, whose aged was in between; ages eleven, nine and six, maybe.
Can I help you? the owner said, and then Cam’s father told the man that his son had stolen property and he wanted to bring the boy in for a talk. He said he’d reimburse the man in full and return the property, but he wanted his son to apologize. The man nodded, and the children looked up, alarmed, not knowing what to expect of this criminal about to enter their store.
His father turned around, ready to gather his family, but before he reached the door, he had an idea. He walked back to the register and spoke to the man, and then his father walked back outside and raised his hand for Karen and Cam to get out of the car. When they reached the door, Cam felt so angry, he had a vision of breaking the store window, taking a brick and shattering the entire pane of glass, and he was thinking about it, too.
His father opened the door, and then led them to the back of the store, and, there, they found the owner and his three children, all standing. No one said anything for a moment, and then his father told Cam the owner’s name, and the names of the children, and then he told Cam to return the merchandise, tell the owner what he had done and apologize.
The kids just looked at him. The oldest boy, he was big enough to kick Cam’s ass, easily. And they all knew. They looked at him, and they recognized him, and they knew he’d stolen from their father. Cam could see the hatred in the older boy, and the girl . . . he couldn’t read her at all. We’re waiting, his father said, and he opened his mouth, but he couldn’t find his voice. What did you do? His mother asked, trying to facilitated, get it over with for everyone’s sake. I stole some games. Speak up, his father said. I stole some games from here, and I’m sorry, he said, staring at his feet again.
Would you like to call the police? his father asked. Not unless it’s necessary, the man said, and his father nodded once. I don’t want to see you or your friends here ever again, or I will call the cops. Do you understand? The man asked. The little hid behind his sister, and everyone kept looking. Cam nodded. Speak, his father said. Yes, Cam said. All right, then. We’re very sorry, his father said, offering the man his hand, exhaling a heavy sigh as they turned and walked out.
His mother touched the back of his head, lightly steering Cam back to the car. Not able to actually touch him, given the circumstances, but letting him know she was still there, still his mother. The light was blinding for a moment, stepping out from under the awning, and after they’d stepped away from the store window, his mother asked; Was that really necessary?
His father reached the car first, got in, and then his mother followed, while Cam opened the door and crawled in the back seat. Was that really necessary? his father asked, repeating the question. I’m not raising a goddamn thief, Karen. You steal from a man, he said, turning to the back seat: you steal from a man with three kids—look at me, his father said, turning in his seat, and his mother sighed. Three hundred dollars, his father said. You walked into the man’s store and stole three hundred dollars? You’re going to earn every cent of that money, working, and you’re going to pay me back, he said. His father was a big man, and he didn’t get angry often, but when he did, it was frightening. Don’t . . . he said, raising his index finger inches from Cam’s face: don’t. His father couldn’t even say the word, “cry.” Don’t you dare cry.
You do that ever again—look at me—I said, look at me, his father said, waiting. In fairness, Cam wasn’t trying to look away, he just couldn’t hold the weight of his father’s stare: If I ever catch you stealing again, and I will belt you. Do you understand me? his father asked, his look baring down on the kid like a g-force, waiting. Cam nodded, his eyes welling with tears, but still, his father wouldn’t let go. Finally, Karen’s head fell back and her mouth fell open, staring at the hood of the car, nodding.
What would you have me do with him? his father asked, not looking at her. You didn’t need to shame him like that, his mother said, nodding, covering her lips with her index and middle fingers, turning in her seat and looking out her window. No, Karen: he knew what he was doing, he knows better; he chose someone kind and he took advantage. So don’t turn this: John shamed himself; I merely pointed out the fact, he said, turning over the ignition and pulling out.
Silence came over him that day. He’d still get into trouble—he’d get into serious trouble, soon enough. And he’d never been particularly loud, but boisterous, certainly. But then and there, this silence came over him, washing from the top of his head, working its way down, circulating through his system. They got on the highway, mid-afternoon on a hot Saturday in Southern California, and his father stared at him in the rearview.
Less than a week later, his father died. So the two incidents had always been linked in his mind. He was just a kid, but there it was. Sometimes when Cam saw a boy sitting in the backseat, staring out their window, looking so gloomy, very likely in trouble, he’d see his father’s eyes in the rearview, and hear his father’s voice, speaking: “Ever again.” Then, and only for a moment, usually, but still, he’d feel sick to his stomach, like his bowels would just start percolating and he’d want to retch.
So. To answer the question, no, Cam does not shoplift. He never steals. But breaking and entering, that’s another story.
You know, I knew Cam’s mother was a single mother, but I didn’t know anything about his father until yesterday, when I was asked about shoplifting. Now, thanks to this question, I have an additional scene I’ll try to flesh out before the end of the day. Thank you very much to the people who commented this past week. I’ll do my best to put all your input to good use.
C.E.